Miss Julia Inherits a Mess (7 page)

With Luanne in charge of spreading the word, I declared myself relieved of all legal and social obligations. I felt as free as a bird. In fact, I felt so free I had to sit down and think up something to do. Although I knew I had a tendency to talk things to death, I wished Sam were with me so we could discuss all that had happened, including the stunning secret stash in Mattie's purse. How in the world had she kept such a secret from all the teetotalers she associated with? Maybe Sam would have some answers, but this was his Rotary Club day, so he was gone for lunch and probably for an hour or two more as he caught up with what was going on in town.

I was left with time on my hands. I could've certainly used a student who wanted to learn to read right about then—what a constructive use of free time that would've been. As it was, though, I was still waiting to be taught how to do it.

So I put that aside and began to think of Mattie. A wave of sadness swept over me, but mixed in with it was a deeply grateful feeling that my responsibility to her was over. Lord, what if I'd had to plan a funeral?

I didn't know who would get that job—Mr. Sitton, perhaps? If Mattie had planned ahead enough to anoint me with her power of attorney, maybe she'd gone a step further and honored someone else with the power of burial.

LuAnne? Sitting there in the library by myself, I had to laugh.
LuAnne would love being in charge. She'd do a good job, but she'd drive everybody crazy while she did it because LuAnne didn't know the meaning of the word
delegate
. Not only would she decide the color of the flowers, determine what the soloist would sing, and designate the eulogists, but she would also tell Pastor Ledbetter the Scripture passages to use. Everybody would be mad at her by the time it was over, but she wouldn't notice. Instead, she would fume for weeks about having been left with everything to do herself. At the same time, it wouldn't surprise me if she didn't come out of it so pleased with herself that she'd think she should start a funeral-planning business.

People would run for the hills, though, if she tried to line them up for her services.

Well, enough of this
. Surely, Mattie would've known better than to leave such momentous decisions to LuAnne, in spite of the annual loaves of banana nut bread.

Then, my eye catching the large black pocketbook, safely clasped from prying eyes, still on the desk, I wondered what I should do with it. And its contents. I supposed it should go to Mr. Sitton. He would be the obvious recipient. If anybody was able to keep a secret, it would be a lawyer, and as long as he had been privy to Mattie's most private concerns, he might already know what the pocketbook contained. And if he didn't, it had been my experience that very little could surprise a lawyer of any note.

Springing from my chair—as much as I was able to spring, that is—I realized that I had one more task to do for Mattie. I could take care of the mail that Sam and I had picked up the day before. I'd left it on the desk there in the library, along with Mattie's checkbook, so I sat down and began to open envelopes.

The small, cream-colored envelope held an invitation to a coffee given by a Mrs. William Stanton at her home in Asheville in honor of a Miss Betsy Holden, neither of whom I'd ever heard of. Quickly finding one of my informals, I wrote that Mrs. Freeman regretted that she would be unable to accept the kind invitation to a coffee for Miss Holden due to Mrs. Freeman's sudden
demise. Addressing the envelope, I marveled at Mattie's wide acquaintance with party givers.

As I pulled out the Duke Power bill—oh, pardon me all over the place, the Duke
Energy
bill—I stopped to wonder if I still had the authority to sign Mattie's checks. It seemed likely that my check-signing authority had ceased at the moment she had.

So it was strange, I thought, that Mr. Sitton hadn't contacted me with an official release-of-duty order. Maybe he hadn't been notified of Mattie's departure.

I picked up the phone, tapped in his office number, and learned that he was out of the office.

“I'm calling about Mattie Freeman,” I told his receptionist. “There're some things I need to discuss with him concerning her. Will you have him call me?”

“I'm sure he intends to contact you, Mrs. Murdoch. But I expect he'll be busy most of the day. Making arrangements, you know.”

“That would be,” I said, hopefully, “
funeral
arrangements?”

“Final disposition arrangements, yes,” she replied.

“Thank you, I just wanted to be sure he knew.” I hung up, thinking that one always had to determine the
kind
of arrangements a lawyer was making, since making arrangements of all kinds was a lawyer's stock-in-trade.

Deciding then that I probably could no longer sign Mattie's checks, I simply wrote out one to Duke Energy and one to the Water and Sewer Department, and left the signature lines blank. That much I could do for Mattie and for Mr. Sitton. He could sign them and put them in the mail.

Leaving the envelopes unsealed, I placed them in the checkbook, then looked again at Mattie's bottom line. What she had in the bank would cover both bills, but, I declare, not much else.

Feeling a little like a Peeping Tom, but concerned about the due date of the monthly rent on her apartment, I paged back through the checkbook stubs. Nothing, it seemed, was being deposited but Social Security checks, although here and there, I saw small deposits ranging from ten to twenty-five dollars.

And I also saw that a number of checks had been written to Publishing Clearance House, AmeriVets, Cancer Central of America, St. Bernard's Reservation School, as well as some others with names that were almost, but not quite, well known. At that point, I stopped and began looking through the handful of leaflets and long envelopes that had come in her mail.

Opening one of the envelopes, I found an offer I apparently could not refuse. For only nineteen dollars, I would receive not one but two prepotted, guaranteed-to-thrive aloe vera plants that no home should be without. And by doing so, I would be eligible for the drawing to win the “GRAND PRIZE OF $20,000.00!!”

And in small print at the bottom, I read: “To be notified of the GRAND PRIZE winner's name, send a self-addressed, stamped envelope with your order.”

“Ah, me,” I said, leaning my head on my hand, saddened by the thought of Mattie sending in small amounts of money in the hope of winning a large amount, and receiving in return piles of magazines, half-dead plants, and who-knew-what-else. If I'd had the heart, I would've added up all the small deposits, then the amount of what she'd sent in to be eligible for more, to see if she'd even broken even.

As it was, I closed the checkbook, put the junk mail in a manila envelope on top, and determined to take it all to Mr. Sitton's office. Then I'd be done with whatever power of attorney I'd had.

When Lillian called me to lunch, I was glad to leave it all behind and think of other, more salubrious things. It didn't quite work out that way.

“Lillian,” I said as I sat at the table, my mind still churning with Mattie's finances, “why in the world do people think they can win a jackpot of money by doing nothing?”

“What you talkin' 'bout?”

“I'm talking about all these schemes or scams or whatever they are that're designed to fool gullible people into thinking they can get something for nothing. Remember how James, bless his heart, got involved with the same sort of thing awhile back?”

“Well, lotsa people feel like the onliest way they can make money is to win it. An' lots of 'em spend a good bit of their paychecks on Powerball an' Mega Millions and such like.”

“Well, see, that's what I don't understand,” I said. “They end up spending more than they win, because they're drawn in by being told that they're almost winners. ‘Just send a little more and you'll be in the final drawing.' It seems to me that they should just work harder or get another job if they need more money.”

“Not so easy to do these days, Miss Julia. Folks get hard up, an' all they got is they hopes an' dreams.”

“Oh, I expect you're right, so I shouldn't judge.” I ate a few bites of the fruit salad on my plate. “But I have Miss Mattie on my mind, and, I declare, I don't understand why she was spending her money in such ways—she didn't have that much to start with. And, yes, I know she was too old to find a job, but as far as I know, she'd never had one. I guess the Social Security she was living on came from her husband, who died long before I knew her. But it seems to me that she could've supplemented it in other ways. For instance, Lillian, she made the most delicious party sandwiches you'd ever put in your mouth. With all the parties this town has, she could've had a nice little sandwich-catering business for herself. Instead, though, she spent her time and her money trying for a windfall which she never managed to get.”

“Yes'm,” Lillian said, looking off in the distance as if something else had come to mind. “An' talkin' 'bout Miss Mattie remind me of Mr. Robert Mobley. You 'member me tellin' you 'bout him?”

“No, I don't. . . . Wait, I do remember. He was always running his wife off, then bringing her back, wasn't he?”

“Yes'm, an' I know you think you got trouble with Miss Mattie's powers, but you don't know trouble till you hear 'bout Mr. Robert.”

“Why? What's he done now?”

“He died.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Well, seems like people are dropping like flies, doesn't it? But maybe his wife will have an easier
time of it. Anyway,” I said, putting my napkin beside the plate, “what's done is done as far as Mattie is concerned, and who's to know how any of us would manage if it came down to it.” Standing up, I made a declaration. “Lillian, it's such a beautiful day, I'm going to see if Mrs. Allen will take a walk with me.”

“Take your house keys, then,” Lillian said. “'Cause 'member, I got to go see Latisha's teacher this afternoon, so I'll be lockin' up the house.”

“Oh, that's right. Latisha's not having any trouble, is she?”

“No more'n usual, I guess. It's the reg'lar end-of-year conference the teachers have, so we know what the chil'ren doin' in school.” Lillian sighed, then she smiled as she shook her head. “'Course I know what Latisha do in school—she talk. That teacher won't be tellin' me nothin' I don't know already.”

_______

Mildred was not interested in a walk.

“I declare, Julia,” she said when I rang her doorbell, “I don't know why you have walking on your mind. Come on in here, and let me show you what I'm doing.”

I followed Mildred to the sunroom, thinking that I might tell her about Mattie's silver flask and its secret contents. She would be enthralled at the deliciousness of something so unlikely. But when we got to the sunfilled room, I saw that she had a pile of swatches, wallpaper books, and carpet samples strewn around on the wicker chairs and sofa.

“I'm going to redo my bedroom,” Mildred said, “but I can't decide what I want. What do you think?”

So my mind was diverted from both secrets and walks, for what could be more entertaining than making plans to redecorate a room?

_______

I unlocked the kitchen door when I got home, noting that Lillian hadn't returned from her conference with Latisha's teacher. As I walked across the room, I saw the blinking light on the telephone.

Punching the
PLAY
button, I stood by the counter and listened to the message:

“Ernest Sitton here, Mrs. Murdoch. We need to meet at your earliest convenience. I'm sure Sam has told you that Mrs. Freeman's power of attorney is no longer in effect, but she went a step further, and that may or may not be welcome news to you. We need to meet as soon as possible. Call me, but in the meantime, I strongly recommend that you clear your calendar for the next several days.” He stopped, cleared his throat, then went on. “For the next several
weeks
,
perhaps.”

What in the world?

“There'll be no need to put a creditor's notice in the paper,” Mr. Ernest Sitton said, as I watched him tick off an item on his yellow legal pad. “Mrs. Freeman's estate doesn't meet the minimum requirement. There is a money market account with a balance of precisely $23,423.31. And, as you know, there's $782.66 in her checking account, which is enough to keep her apartment for another month. That should give you time to dispose of her furniture and other possessions. Of course the usual bills will come in—electricity, water, and so forth. I have a list here of the utilities you'll need to notify when you want them cut off.” He pushed a sheet of paper across the conference table.

I didn't look at it. I didn't even pick it up. I just sat there listening, but not really hearing, as he went down a list of the duties of the executor of Mattie's last will and testament.

I wished I had waited for Sam to get home before rushing to Delmont in response to Mr. Sitton's phone message. But no, fearing that there were more power-of-attorney duties hanging over my head, nothing would do but to hurry and find out. And to find out without waiting for the one who could help me, now that I badly needed help.

“And here's your copy of the will.” Another set of papers slid across the table. “You'll notice that there are a number of gifts and bequests to various groups and individuals. It'll be up to you to decide what percentage of each bequest the estate will cover,
which is what I suggest you do so as to avoid anyone's contesting of the will.

“Now, Mrs. Murdoch,” Mr. Sitton continued, pushing aside his legal pad. “You will also notice that the will requires the payment of funeral expenses and creditors, like the hospital, her doctors, and me, before any bequests are distributed—that's standard practice. The medical bills, however, should be minimal—she was on Medicaid. I will be submitting my bill at the end of the month. But you'll be pleased to know that Mrs. Freeman, at my suggestion, made all her funeral arrangements with the Good Shepherd Funeral Home some time ago and went to great effort to prepay those expenses. So, if I may further suggest, it would behoove you not to make any changes or upgrades from what she has selected and paid for. Now, do you have any questions?”

I straightened up in my chair, and said, “Yes. Can you get somebody else to do this?”

Mr. Sitton's eyebrows went up, but he quickly settled them down. Clearing his throat, he said, “You can certainly delegate certain responsibilities to anyone you want, but the responsibility of executing the will is yours.”

“But I don't want it. I don't even want to delegate. I want out from under the whole thing.”

Mr. Sitton pushed up his glasses and studied me. He sat there across the table and
studied
me. As if I were some strange being that he'd never come across before.

“I was under the impression,” he finally said, “that you and Mrs. Freeman were close friends. She led me to believe that she had no concern about your ability and your willingness to execute her will.”

I studied him back, not backing down by even a blink, as I tried to determine if there'd been a hint of accusation, or maybe of disappointment, in his words. I didn't care either way. I wasn't in the business of pleasing an attorney I'd never hired or even known two days before.

“You were laboring under a false impression,” I said. “Mattie
and I were never close, and, frankly, I counted her as more of an acquaintance than a friend. I don't have an idea in the world why she would do this to me, nor do I have any idea of how to execute a will.” I pushed the papers back toward him. “Nor do I want to learn.”

“Well,” he said, gathering the papers and carefully aligning them. “Well, I can't say I haven't run into situations before where a named executor
couldn't
serve for one reason or another, but never one who just didn't want to. Not that it isn't your prerogative to refuse. In fact, it's better to refuse altogether than to accept and do a poor job of it, although the settling of the Freeman estate should be both simple and straighforward with few demands upon the executor.”

Regardless of how simple and straightforward he made it sound, I felt no obligation to Mattie or to anyone else to accept a position I didn't want—
another
position, I might add, that I didn't want. But, as usual, I had to try to make him understand and agree with me that I was not the person to take on such a responsibility.

“I do believe that I must exercise that prerogative, Mr. Sitton. I know it might make your job more arduous, but if you knew all the things I'm already committed to, I think you would understand.” I thought of my commitment to the Literacy Council, and to Helen Stroud's flower-arranging class, and to the weight loss and general health of Mildred, even though she wouldn't know if I followed through on that or not. In my view, I didn't have time for anything else. But I summed it up for Mr. Sitton by concluding, “I'm really not equal to the task.”

“Hm-m,” Mr. Sitton said. “Obviously, Mrs. Freeman thought that you were. Her naming you, her selecting you to carry out her wishes, is an honor that indicates an extremely high regard for your abilities. I'm sure she was at peace knowing that her affairs would be in such safe hands.”

Well, there was one question answered—obviously, Mr. Sitton had not known of Mattie's private affliction. For how could he
consider it an honor when she had made her selection bolstered by the occasional sip of spirits?

Nonetheless, my spine needed a good deal more stiffening, because Mr. Sitton seemed intent on making me feel selfish and self-centered for foiling the wishes of a woman who could no longer speak for herself.

I thought briefly of Mattie, picturing her in the most comfortable chair in the living room of whichever hostess she was honoring with her presence. I thought of her crouched over the steering wheel of that huge Oldsmobile, looking neither to the right nor to the left as she tooled around town. I thought of her entering the Lila Mae Harding Sunday school class, clomping through the door with that walker, expecting everyone to scatter before her. I thought of Mattie, at some point in her long life, giving serious consideration to the writing of her will and the judicious dispersal of her assets. I thought of her mentally listing all the people she knew, trying to decide to whom she would entrust her final wishes.

And I thought of Mattie making out her will while sustaining herself with constant nips from the silver flask in her purse.

How in the world had she decided on me? She must have considered and rejected one after the other of her acquaintances. How had I ended up as the last woman standing?

I tried to feel honored, but it didn't work. And wouldn't have worked even if I'd thought she'd been operating with a clear, unbefuddled mind. As it was, all I felt was hemmed in and trapped.

But not for long. I stood up. “Mr. Sitton, I appreciate Mattie's high regard for the abilities she assumed I have. But I assure you, I am not the person for this job. I don't want it, I'm unprepared for it, and therefore I formally refuse whatever honor there might be.” I couldn't leave it there, of course, for I always had to temper any firm stand I felt compelled to take. “I hope you understand and I hope I've not added to your problems in settling Mattie's estate.”

“I do understand,” Mr. Sitton said, rising also. “I admit that I
thought you would do a competent job, but you know what you can take on and what you can't. However, Mrs. Freeman did name a successor executor in case you were unable to serve.”

“She did?” I was stunned. Why hadn't he said so? Here, I'd turned myself inside out to make sure that he would not think the less of me for refusing—although why I should care what a Delmont lawyer thought of me, I didn't know.

“Well,” I said, sinking back into my chair, “that certainly relieves my mind. I don't feel so bad about turning it down now. Mattie must've known that I might have my hands full. Thank goodness she made provision for that.” I smiled. “Now I don't have to worry about her wishes being carried out.”

“Oh, yes. They'll be carried out to the letter. I am the trustee, appointed to see that it's all done legally and in accordance with her wishes. As closely as possible, that is.”

“Well, then,” I said, getting to my feet again. “I will be on my way and let you get on with it.” I started toward the door, but turned back. “May I ask who the successor executor is?”

“Um, let me see,” he said, picking up the will and scanning the first page. “I don't believe I know her, but perhaps you do. Mrs. Leonard Conover?”

I stood stock-still and stared at him.
“LuAnne?”

Then I turned to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat back down. “If you don't mind, Mr. Sitton, let's start over again. From the beginning.”